


Healing

by PolarGrizz47



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brain Damage, Hospitalization, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolarGrizz47/pseuds/PolarGrizz47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bullet leaves Finch brain-damaged, Reese struggles with their relationship, and his ablity to confront the problem. Shaw and Carter gather evidence and try to capture the attackers, but the real threat hides within the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read all the tags carefully, This story does have some blirps of sexual assault and humiliation.  
> As for now, I'm stopping at the fifth chapter, perhaps one day I'll finish it-but I'm not making any promises.

Finch was healing. Slowly, steadily, surely. Healing.

It had been four weeks since the accident that had left him damaged, his old self lost in the wreckage that the bullet had caused. It was funny how one piece of lead could destroy years and years of work, love, _life_. Reese had shot so many people in his life time, taken away so much and in the process he had given many a peaceful and normal lifestyle. If anything, it was he who deserved to be sitting in a plain white bed, staring at the television or the window with a blank expression - not Finch.

Finch deserved to be safe. Locked away in his library with his books, typing away at the Machine, sipping at his tea and petting the ever excitable Bear. Instead he currently sat at the _Mercy Hospital_ , specializing in brain damages and defects. The clipboard at the front of his bed read as follows:

**Harold Crow**

Suffering from bullet damage to the head, areas include:

  *          Slight _Cerebrum_ damage, shows signs of thinking, learning, memory, speech and emotional deficiencies.
  *          Damage to the _Cerebellum_ , fine motor movements and balance issues.
  *          _Optical lobe_ , damage to the left lobe resulting in his right eye being permanently blind.



**Other notes** : Harold is very quiet and shy, bright lights and louder noises scare him. He much prefers the natural light from the west side windows. Television is turned on at twelve am, unless he rises early, and stays on until seven pm unless doctors dictate otherwise. During learning sessions (2pm to 6pm on weekdays and 12am to 2pm on weekends) television will be turned off, and overhead lights dimmed to desirable amount. Visitors must check in with Doctor _Emily November_ beforehand, all gifts and other objects must be checked over before given to the patient.

 **Visitors** : Regulars include, John Reese. Others noted, Joss Carter, Lionel Fusco, Megan Tillman, and Samantha Shaw.

Reese tried to visit every day, unless a number got in the way. The detectives visited every other weekend, and sometimes during the weekdays if the station was slow. The doctor visited only so often, and Shaw even lesser.

-:-

“Ah, hello John. I see you brought some of the lilies again, I’ll mark them down.” The woman behind the main desk greeted and wrote down something on a paper, the ex-op smiled toward her and took a left, going to the elevator bank. Finch’s room was on the fourth floor, down the third hall on the right and two doors in to the left. Dr. November already knew he’d be visiting frequently, and had made sure all staff would give the stoic man entrance.

Reese counted the steps as he neared his destination, wondering how Harold would be today, trying to calm his heart. His mind racing, as always, with feelings of guilt, love, fear, confusion, hope and anger. When he looked up, all he saw was a creamy pale door, a card lock in place and the title ‘ _25C_ ’ branded in the plastic frame. Using his visitor card, he swiped in and watched as the door’s handle twitched, unlocked. Taking one deep breath, John stepped into the warm and quiet room.

The television was off, curtains open and the lighting soft. Creamy yellow and white walls made up the complex room; the furthest wall was made up entirely of windows, and in the corner sat Finch’s bed. His crippled form lay under a thin blue blanket, the soft gentle in and out of his breathing indicated that he was still asleep. With a nearly silent click, the door was sealed shut, and his ears rang with the hanging silence over the steady beeping of several monitors and devices.

His chair was still on the left side of the bed, the old lilies thrown out by staff members and a plush purple bear lay askew with Finch’s unsure grip around its lower leg, the rest of it tucked under his cheek as he dozed off on it. Reese let his lips quirk up at the sight, stepping closer silently, careful not to wake the older man up. ‘ _Sleep was the brains way of healing_ ,’ that was what Dr. November had said on one of the first day’s Finch was brought in. Truly, they had only entered _Mercy_ two weeks ago, the hospital recommending there expertise and equipment.

Reese had chosen to use his working name, wanting Finch to relearn the name he had uttered over a million times, a part of him hoping it would trigger something inside the recluses mind… so far, nothing. Shaw had her own reasons for using her name, and Reese didn’t bother prying. As he pulled the chair away from the wall and sat down, the lilies were tenderly set in the vase, some water already filling the clear china.

And so he sat there, hands clasped together as he watched the silent man sleep, hoping his dreams were pleasant and long.

-:-

_“Reese…” He whispered, snuggling closer and intertwining their fingers, a coy smile playing on his lips as he did so. The ex-op pressed into the kiss, smiling and feeling a gush of warm emotions nip at him, relishing the very act of even touching the private man. Finch would smile differently when they were alone, a brighter, purer grin that could brighten even the saddest of occasions._

_“Yes, Harold?” The taller man whispered back, keeping their voices down for no real reason, Finch owned the entire building and they were on the top floor, locked away in a private room. Lounging on their bed, enjoying the lazy sense of satisfied longing feed the previous evening, a tangle of limbs and kisses._

_“I love you-”_

-:-

With a jolt, Reese was tore from his day dream by the loud chiming of a machine toward his right, the device indicating that a bag of fluid had emptied. And less than a minute later, a kind nurse had stepped in, her black hair pulled into a bun; the pink and white scrubs giving her a pleasant look. She smiled at John and checked up on Harold, seeing which bag was alerting and then tuning down the bothersome alarm, then she was gone to grab another fluid package. The brief sound had disturbed Finch, his whole body twitching slightly and little sounds of annoyance left his pale lips.

The door opened again and the nurse was back, smiling as always as she set down the bag on the bed and unclamped the empty one from the high stand. Harold’s tiny movements were her cue to greet the slower man, happily she responded, “Good morning, Harold.” Finch rolled over awkwardly to get a better look at the voice, and she helped him into a sitting position, being careful. “I’m just going to change your vitamin dropper, would you like that?” Her voice wasn’t childlike, instead it was clear and concise, more punctuation put into several words, but she didn’t seem to be talking to a baby, which Reese was grateful for.

Finch merely blinked at her and looked around the room, spotting Reese and then looking down at his wrist while she tenderly changed the supply line and hung up the bag, the dripping starting automatically. Turning to face Reese, she whispered, “Dr. November will check up on Harold within the hour, have a nice day.” And with that, she was gone. Reese couldn’t blame her for being curt; she had other patients to attend to.

Once the door had closed, Reese turned his full attention to the small man staring at him. “Hello Harold, it’s me, John.” The whole routine felt boring, dull, but the doctor had said that repetition was a great tool. He simply stared back, swallowing and looking out toward the windows then back to John. The bold color of the yellow lilies then caught his attention, his left hand reaching out to touch them; the movement making the needle in his arm bend awkwardly. Reese quickly took his hand, gently lowering it back to Harold’s thigh, and patting it sincerely. “No, no, we can’t touch the flowers, Harold.”

His words made Finch frown and squirm around, looking down at his lap shamefully. Reese knew what had been damaged, knew what parts of the brain were affected, the physical and mental setbacks they were going to have to deal with. Still, the sheer reality at what he was looking at broke his heart. Finch was trying _so_ hard, and Dr. November said he’d made amazing progress, given the wounds he’d sustained. It was a miracle he was even awake, not lying in a coma, or six feet under. With another deep breath, his tears were quelled down by rapidly blinking, his thumb running over the smooth skin of   
Finch’s hand.

Before Reese could say anymore, the door opened. Doctor November stepping in gracefully, the low clicking of her heels echoing in the room as she approached the two men. Once she realized Finch was awake, she smiled again, the bright grin showing past the light makeup she adorned, blond hair pulled back into a pony tail. “Well, Good morning Harold. How are we feeling today?” Her voice held the same attitude as the nurse before, and Finch nodded to an unasked question. Any interaction was a hopeful sign, Harold wasn’t completely lost. She looked at John, “and you, Mr. Reese?”

“I’m okay, thanks…” He muttered, looking away slightly at the ‘Mr. Reese,’ it didn’t sound anything like Harold’s callings. Finch surprised them both by squeezing John’s wrist, smiling momentarily as he did so, Emily returned the smile as praise. And John by returning the weak squeeze, careful not to crush the others hand in his skilled grip.

“Well, today is Sunday, so training sessions are off, he did very well yesterday. We reviewed colors, didn’t we Harold?” Emily spoke, checking several machines, pulse rate, blood pressure and then looking back toward the healing wound. Finch’s surgery was extensive; a metal plate covered the lower part of his skull, cradling the bone replacement right above his pins within the damaged neck. The back of Finch’s head was shaved, throwing off his entire hair-do, but Reese didn’t mind. After several moments, Finch nodded and wiggled his toes, remembering the day before. “Yes, we did. Now, Harold, can you tell me your favorite color?” Emily wasn’t expecting any sort of reply; she simply wanted to make the crippled man think.

“Yel…” The words tumbled from Finch’s mouth, he’d never really talked much, and most of the things he said were… _just sounds_. Both the doctor and Reese stared at him, expecting more as he stuttered out a fragmented ‘yellow.’ Once the horribly chopped up word had become clear, Reese understood why Finch had been drawn to the lilies earlier, and the doctor seemed ecstatic.

“Yellow? Oh, Harold, that’s such a pretty color.” Her consoling words helped ease the shaking man into more speaking, but nothing more came, he only nodded and grabbed Reese’s wrist again. After a moment, she sighed and stood tall once more, turning toward Reese. “You may watch television, but nothing… graphic. Keep it simple.” Doctor November had started to walk back to the entrance, “Breakfast will be served shortly, and do make sure Harold eats his fruit before the side of puddin’.” The last word defiantly had a Texan twang to it, and Reese was well sure that she had originated from somewhere down south before moving to the big cities.

“Thank you, doctor, have a nice day.” Reese said, staring at his wrist, still enclosed by Finch’s pathetic grip, a silly grin tugging at his features. The clicking of the door locking made John look up at Harold, noticing how the man was staring at the lilies again, fingers working against Reese’s tanned skin rhythmically. “I suppose we should watch some tv, huh?” He said, reaching over near the drawer and grabbing the remote, turning on the rather large television that was hooked to the opposite wall. Reaching back in, he pulled out a case, flipping it open and grabbing Finch’s glasses, the same square and black ones he’d worn a billion times. Leaning toward the man, he steadily pushed the frames on, mindful of the exit wound just a little above Harold’s forehead, positioned at the right. Surprisingly, it was left un-bandaged, staples and stitches temporally held the skin together and some other surgery fused the bone-it was too complex for Reese’s knowledge.

Easing back, he turned his attention to the screen as he swiftly picked up the light grey remote, “What do you want to watch today, Harold?” flicking his thumb over some buttons, he clicked through various channels, looking for something appropriate. Other than cartoons and children’s networking, there wasn’t much on. Looking back toward Finch, he was pleased to see the man fiddling with the frames, his hands shaking from the slight exertion. “Do you like those?” Reese questioned, leaning back toward the recluse and taking both pale hands, lowering them as the man crunched up his nose, looking down his face at the frames. The odd display made a low chuckle rise out of John’s throat, the sound confusing the blue eyed man momentarily, and his wide eyes looked at John for some sort of explanation. Smiling, Reese scooted the chair closer, resting some of his upper body on the bed. Naturally, Finch snuggled up closer, staring at the television and holding the bear’s leg again.

The purple creature was a gift from Carter; she had bought it downstairs in the waiting area, probably nervous and excited to see Finch all at the same time. It was most likely an impulse buy, something to wrench and tug at while she took the short elevator ride up and saw Finch for the first time since the accident. But the silent man had bonded with the soft bear, and the thing was hardly ever missing from his bedding, but got washed twice a week like the rest of the bedding, protocol.

Reese got ahold of himself as he tuned the channel to some nature show, about the jungles down near the equator, he didn’t really care. But Finch was enthralled by all the colors, shapes, and the ex-op realized that must have been like seeing the thing for the very first time. All those memories of high school science videos were probably deleted in the shooting, Finch having no recollection of ever learning about the Venus fly trap, ferns, beetles…

This in mind, John wondered if the damaged man had any remembrance of _them_.

So they sat like that, Finch’s gaze glued to the various plants and animals while Reese kept still, letting Harold unconsciously squeeze his wrist at certain parts, lost in the feeling. Breakfast was uneventful, although John had let the smaller man devour the pudding fist, before the fruit. He had already eaten back at the little dinner he and Finch used to frequently visit, ordering their usual. Around two, Finch was asleep, leaning against Reese’s shoulder and making happy sleep sounds. Awhile later, long after his shoulder was numb, he lowered Harold’s head to the soft pillows, acting like he was dealing with frosted glass as he pulled up the blanket and tucked the purple bear under Finch’s arm.

Reese wasn’t tired in the least, so he turned off the jungle time and watched Harold rest, taking time to seriously consider his options. If Harold had no memory of their relationship, Reese would have to become unattached, if that could mean a safe live for the crippled man. Or if he did, somehow, remember their private hours, he sure as hell wasn’t letting onto it. Sadly, chances where that Finch had no idea who Reese was, or why he was here - John had lied to the doctors, saying he was a good friend.

John’s heart felt heavy as he rubbed the paler area on his ring finger, his engagement ring gone, as well as Harold’s, stored somewhere safe. He knew, somewhere in a dark corner of his mind, that they’d never walk down the aisle. Never tie the knot, travel the world, and grow old together…

And he was okay with that, all that mattered was Finch.

He’d failed the recluse so many times it seemed, but now he had a chance to protect the man forever, and he’d do that dutifully, given the chance.

Never mind his heart ache.


	2. Healing (2)

It was now nearing six weeks. Six weeks of painful visits and learning sessions, but Finch was moving forward, in leaps and bounds-brain wise, anyways. Emily was surprised by how fast he was able to learn the alphabet, put some simple words together with the flash cards. A few times Reese had sat there, watching Finch re-learn some things, or watching the man flip the cards over and refuse to do anything that day. Apparently, Harold was quite sassy for a brain damaged individual, if he didn’t want to do it, he definitely wasn’t going to.

Today was Tuesday; another day of reviewing colors, the alphabet and spelling came Thursday’s through Saturday’s. Finch had problems with colors, lots of problems. The simple shades of pigment had him frustrated and angry in no time at all, sounds of annoyance escaping his small frame as time dragged on. But, given the optical lobe injuries, Dr. November wasn’t very surprised by this, and John wasn’t very fond of watching Harold struggle through something so easy, it was heart breaking.

It was heart breaking, everything about the whole situation. Finch was forced to wear dreadfully dull clothes, white and grey clothing, every day. He missed the suits, watching Finch stand in front of one of his many walk in closets, trying to decide a suit ensemble for that day. Reese missed the times where Harold would go buy him new clothes, muttering things under his breath about the fit, color, the stitching even. Another thing that was odd was seeing Finch technology free for so long. There were no laptops, tablets, or anything. The closest he got to modern technology was the flat screened television up on the wall. He missed the good old times, when he would break a guy’s arm and Harold would say something terribly dull, but humorous over the ear piece. Now it was just him and Shaw.

Not that it was a bad thing. Shaw was a smart, capable, bad ass woman. She had Reese’s back, both mentally and physically. More so mentally now. There were times when Reese had to sit down with an old tie, and keep from screaming. She would pace around the library, Bear following her, just giving John the decent time for emotion. Then, on a certain cue, right before Reese felt like giving up and stopping the visits, she would mention something. Sometimes so off topic that it would make the grieving man laugh, other times it related to Finch. Most of it related the Finch.

But you couldn’t blame Reese for missing his constant. His lover. Hell, _his life_.

It felt like Harold was right there, right in front of him, but when Reese would reach out to touch him, his hand cut right through. Finch felt like a ghost now. Just there… but not really _there_.

-:-

Finch had thrown a fit, a bloody tantrum for a man of his mental capabilities. Flash cards of color scattered on the floor and his high pitched wailing echoed down the hall, probably upsetting other patients. Emily had dreadfully admitted that she pushed him to far this time, stopping a good three hours early, packing up the cards quickly and setting about calming the noises.

Reese had the unfortunate luck of walking in right about there, heart hammering, impulse raging-he thought Finch was in danger for a second. But the sight of the blond doctor trying, and failing, the sooth his tempered cries made John’s heart flush with relief.

_Finch is fine._

_There are no bad guys to kill. Calm down, John. Calm down._

After his mind had cycled through the words a few times, he was able to step closer, brandishing new lilies. (It felt odd just walking in empty handed, so every time the flowers started to brown, he’d buy more. Anything for his hands to crush on the ride up.) Once Harold had seen him, the screaming turned to muted sobbing, tears still rolling down his reddened cheeks. Emily turned and gave a reliefed grin, “Well, great timing, Mr. Reese.”

“Good morning to you too… what happened?” Reese spat sourly, he knew Emily strived for more than Harold could give sometimes; it was really only a matter of time before he freaked out on her. He set the lilies on the bedside table, taking his usual seat as the doctor naturally backed off, sensing his darker air.

“It was my bad; Harold just isn’t ready for some things yet.” Was her only explanation, green eyes looking away pitifully as Reese reached over and took one of Harold’s trembling hands, giving it a small squeeze. “I’ll leave you two alone then…” Much like a dog, beaten, Dr. November walked away with her tail tucked under both legs. And when the door closed, Harold started inching closer to the ex-op, eyes fearful behind the same black frames. John gave a weak smile, allowing the man to ease closer, not wanting to rush him and inflict another round of screaming.

When the brain weak man was finally pressed flush against him, body slanted onto the natural curvature of Reese’s presence, the taller was able to subside the tiny whimpers and subtle trembles of his body. Finch’s left hand gripped at the lapel of the black jacket Reese still adorned, staying fit to Finch’s tailoring-a part of his mind hoping that would ring a bell for the cripple, still nothing. Battle roughened hands caressed and brushed back Finch’s hair, sliding down his skull but always stopping at the boarder of the metal that may very well stay there until Harold’s dying day. His style was thrown helplessly out of whack, not being spiked up in weeks, or cut for that matter-his brown hair was easing taller, longer.

Soon Harold’s whining stopped altogether, breathing evening out as he laid there in Reese’s arms, eyes closed and ears in tune with the rhythmic beating of a strong heart. The dried tears still stained his skin that had become less redder with calming, Reese wouldn’t risk another panic attack for the sake of Finch’s looks-so he left the tears be. The hands worried his jacket to their own accord, sometimes pulling Reese closer as a means of comfort, but the ex-op didn’t have the heart to fully embrace the damaged other. It just didn’t feel… _right_.

Reese wouldn’t make things easier on himself by accepting the loving touches if Finch didn’t understand. He wouldn’t take advantage of the trembling mess that became attached to anything that appeared. There were times, in the middle of the night or morning, where John would catch himself smearing back the untamable locks, smoothing a loving stroke over the pale forehead, smiling sadly at the broken man. Finch, no matter how different he’d become, still laid claim to his heart. Even if the mindset wasn’t there, the recluse still was able to make Reese’s heart skip a beat with a small smile, confused touch or startling blue gaze that never wavered.

So they sat there in a comfortable silence, each lost to their own thoughts.

-:-

_“John, stop it.” Finch had muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing his sleep heavy eyes, the sun was already peaking over the edge of the city, casting a warm glow over all the slumbering residences. The ex-op smiled tiredly into the pillow, letting his arm encircle Finch’s middle and hand innocently resting on the genius’s ass. Finch turned with a frowning smile, the way he was able to express his emotions clearly through a well perfected facial aptitude was startling. But Reese loved it._

_“Mhhh…” Was all the retort was, brain lost to the licking sensations of waking up spreading over his body, and the slight chuckle that produced in Finch was warming to both the heart and soul. When Finch laughed, in any way shape or form, it breathed a sense of life into things Reese hadn’t thought possible sense he’d lost Jessica._

_“You’re like an octopus in the morning, John.” Harold sighed, lips curving up again when Reese pulled his plush form closer, a mumbled growl of agreement smothered into the pillow. Reluctantly, he let his arm loosen as Finch stood up, going about his morning ritual, glasses being grabbed and worn. John had the fortunate luck of opening his eyes as the other man bent to grab a random article clothing, not feeling comfortable enough to walk around stark naked in the safe house, even if all the windows were doubly tinted. As he bent, the angle gave Reese an oh-so-perfect view of a splendorous ass, still a bit red from the somewhat brutal loving Reese delivered last night. But by god, if Finch didn’t whimper, moan and cry in brilliant frames of pleasure-Reese would be lying._

_The article happened to be the light blue shirt John had worn yesterday, neither of them having had the gusto lately to go get his many dirtied suits cleaned, leaving the tanner man with a collection of somewhat colorful clothing Finch kept stored. The older man slipping it on and yawning, a hand reaching down to pull the silky fabric down over his blooming rear. Finch was shy, not only reclusive, but_ shy _. The simple, unconscious movements to cover up his body was both arousing and touching at the same time. Their where times which Harold would become a bit daring, do something that would make Reese gawk like a fish out of water or stutter a reasonable response without sexually groaning in public. But Finch was brave, he’d stood face to face with death, in so many forms and just stared it head on, teeth gritted and heart hammering. John admired him for so many things._

_As Finch made his way over to the kitchen nestled in the corner of the enormous flat, Reese was proud to note the limp had a heavier gait, the poor man no doubt feeling the expanse of sex over his worn body. John had been ruthless last night, tearing cries and sounds that Finch wasn’t even aware that he could make. But that was typical of Reese, to push the envelope, but never pushing it too far-for it would fall out of the mailbox. Face pressed into the pillow, Harold had succumbed to the fierce feelings of devotion and longing John radiated twenty four seven, more so in the later hours._

_He’d opened up to Reese, both mentally and physically, and that was an accomplishment. Harold had never even opened up to Grace the way he had to Reese, but that affection wasn’t easily won. John had worked and worked, putting in overtime hours to poke his little way into Finch’s very enigma. Not detoured by the many traps Finch had laid out, hoping to scare the other man away, John was determined, committed. Of course Finch saw that in the ways Reese stood by his side, hunted him down in times of desperate need, gambled his own life with the Machine and laid down his arms in hopes of saving Harold._

_Last night, Finch gave him the opportunity to lay down his adoration in flesh, and boy, did he deliver. He could still feel the dripping amounts of desire filling the cracks of his façade, making them both whole and one in the coupling of the evening. But Finch also left his mark, on shoulders and back, thin red lines had faded with time, but the burning of the marking’s never ceased. John supposed they’d never stop until the day he’d died, forever a reminder of passion in many moons._

_Watching the recluse limp to the kitchen, pulling down the shirt so it hung around his thighs, then proceeded in producing his trade mark tea. Looking over his shoulder every now and again with that same shy air and somewhat naughty gleam to his blue scrutiny had Reese’s cock threading with hunger once more. Resting on his elbows, he grinned, voice sleep laced and dry with the morning, he spoke sincerely, “God, do I love you Harold.”_

_Much enjoying the way Finch got red and hid his face in the teacup at the honest words; Reese threw the black blankets off and slipped of the bed. Back cracking at the exertion and popping comfortingly all the way up his spine; Reese strode over to the kitchen, grinning mischievously at the embarrassed look Finch perceived when he saw the hanging semi-erection between John’s legs._

_Reese didn’t really have a problem strutting around completely naked._

-:-

Waking up with a jolt, Reese awoke from the pleasant memories for no reason what-so ever. The air in the room was peaceful, the sun already setting high in the sky, probably a little later than noon. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but Finch’s gentle breath had eased his mind into a simpler time period. Looking down with some concern, he found Harold still molded to his side, face pressed into the jacket and spectacles askew with sleep hazardous movements. Reese chuckled lightly, heart panging with the dream’s memories, the sheer aloneness he felt in that moment was indescribable.

Finch was right there, so close and yet more than far away.

Smiling sadly, he took care in laying the man back down, carefully prying the fingers off his suit jacket and quickly shoving the teddy bear into Harold’s needy hands before he awoke disturbed. Leaning back, Reese reached inside his jacket, pulling out a neatly folded picture and looking over it wearily. It was dangerous to carry such intimate memories around, if something was to happen, this could be used against Reese in more ways than one.

The picture was small, easily concealed but never forgotten. The scenery reflected in the back ground clearly took place in a small local dinner, taken from the back booth sneakily. Harold looked paranoid, but happy in the picture, leaning into Reese with one of his purely Finch expressions while John grinned wide and held the camera out in front-you could tell by the way his arm went off frame. The old memories made a dashing grin flash across his face, ‘ _Try the eggs benedict, Mr. Reese_.’

Looking down at his sleeping companion, John miserably understood that for the better good, he had to go. Spending so much time here was risky, if someone was following his trail, he could lead them straight to the helpless Finch. Reese would never forgive himself if someone was to further harm the confused man, and sacrifice’s had to be made.

Reese stood up quietly; looking around the room one last time before resting his steel gaze on Finch’s resting structure, a frown tugging at his features. Having already tucked the picture in his jacket, he leaned over Harold, resting a hand near his tuft of brown hair and biting his lip, Reese made sure no-one was watching. (He already knew the hospital had no cameras in the rooms themselves.) Closing his eyes briefly, John pressed a tender kiss to Finch’s forehead, smiling gloomily when the smaller man whined and stirred a bit.

“Good bye Harold.” Standing up, Reese looked away and whispered the last words he’d probably ever say to broken man, “ _I love you_.” Quickly, he walked away, not looking back as he opened the door and stepped out for the last time. Emotions would get the better of his judgment if he even dared to take a glimpse of the still sleeping man. This was safer for Finch, even if he didn’t understand; Reese knew his presence was a hindrance to the safety this shelter provided.

There was no other option.

When the click of silence filled the room, Finch lifted his head and turned his blue eyes to the door, regarding it with mild confusion and an isolated fear. “Jo…John?” Was the question that tumbled from his pale lips, and would be repeated every day until the very end.

Somewhere, in a lost and forgotten place, the Machine sent out another number. The text causing Reese’s phone to bing.

Finch sat alone in the room, staring at the door with worry, tears brimming his eyes once more. Something was telling him that the mysterious nice man wouldn’t be visiting anymore; a confused panic told him that he’d been deserted again. Looking toward the chair Harold reached out and touched the receding warmth of Reese’s lingering presence, his other hand tightening on the purple bear worriedly as he pulled it closer to his body, not understanding why the taller man hadn’t waved him bye-bye.

Easing out onto the road, Reese made his way back to the library, staying strong despite the tremble in his lip. This was for the better good. Finch deserved to be safe. Harold deserved so much more that John could ever hope of giving.

More warm tears tracked their expedition down pale cheeks, blue eyes wide with confusion. He didn’t understand. Why had the black and white man left? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. “John?” He repeated, hoping the words would magically return the kind soul to his side; he wanted to watch television again. He wanted to share his pudding with the tall man again. He wanted…

“ _John_?”


	3. Healing (3)

Harold didn’t like being alone, sitting there in the simply light room, watching television alone. He missed John, the man had been gone for about five days, and the startling effect of non-constant exposure was astounding. He’d began to communicate more vocally, always asking the same question, like a record broken beyond repair.

“John?”

It was actually quite saddening, Emily had never had a visitor let a patient get so attached, then just up and leave. Frankly, it was cruel. Finch was trying, making an effort to please them all, and John served as a … reward, to put it bluntly. She’d seen how quickly the damaged man calmed and warmed up when the taller was around, but she also felt the underlying sense of sadness Mr. Reese gave off. It often made her wonder what sort of relationship the two men had before the incident.

The only number that served as a means of communication for the mysterious and sharply dressed man had been severed shortly after the day he’d up and left. The doctor wondered if his absence served as a trigger for Harold, since he’d become much more interactive and questioning during learning sessions. They still had problems with colors, and Dr. November had ordered a few tests on Finch’s brain again, hoping to find the clue in that retrospect. And as they waited for the results, she shifted the sessions away from color and onto bigger and better things.

Physical therapy was a start.

She already knew about Finch’s prior injuries located in the cervical spine and right hip, but no records were ever found of the surgery or how he obtained these setbacks. No doubt these caused the slow man pain and discomfort, so she kept him on a low dose regimen of pain pills. Her older brother would be running the movement training, helping Harold get reacquainted with this body and to stretch out muscle that may be cramping due to lack of use.

“Good morning, Harold.” Emily greeted cheerfully, watching as Finch tore his gaze away from the tv special on the Great Plains of Africa and incline his head somewhat. The small man wasn’t like other patients; no cartoon would capture his attention quite like a real world view.

“Hi.” He said blankly, looking back at the television for a moment as a zebra was mercilessly torn into pieces by a ravenous pack of hyena’s, then back to the approaching doctor. “John?” He questioned, as every day slide by, so did the non-stop begging for the man’s friend.

“Not today, Sorry Harold.” The doctor whispered, leaning over him with a sad smile and turning off the television, much to Finch’s disappointment. “I have someone I’d like you to meet,” Emily informed, turning his gaze to the door as a tall man stepped in. He was well fitted for hiking and weight training, hair greying around the temples but receding to the black locks that were buzzed cut shortly. Green eyes like his sisters were reflected behind contacts and a hard set jaw completed his overall look. Adorned in simple jeans and a blue tee-shirt, the man introduced himself.

“Hello, Harold. I’m Dave Linking, it’s nice to meet you finally, and my sister has told me so much about you.” He said, taking a seat where Mr. Reese would usually sit, offering his hand. Finch hesitantly lifted his pale arm from his side and gave Dave’s hand a weak shake, frowning.

“Hi, Dave.” Harold said in a mumble, then looking back at the blond doctor he was more familiar with, “Tired.” Was all he said, looking around the room for any signs of John, before grabbing the purple teddy, pulling it flush against his side. Both siblings shared a look and stood up, nodding and silently agreeing on tomorrow for an official date to begin his therapy.

“Alright, Harold. Sweet dreams.” Keeping the words simple, they walked over to the door, where Emily flicked off the lights and basked the room in a cool sense of lighting, the windows casting a cold glow of pale blue lighting into Finch’s room. Once the door closed, Finch curled up on his side, not bothered by his glasses anymore and sagged into the mattress.

He really did miss John though.

The teddy bear was still as soft as the day he got it from that nice lady, he couldn’t remember her name, and she hardly visited anymore. Yawning loudly, he smothered the animal against him, pulling the blanket awkwardly over himself some more as he stared at the now empty chair. It felt weird not having Reese there, watching over him with an easy smile and gentle touch. The tall man had been there sense Harold could remember, but he didn’t like the early memories. Everything hurt back then. There was a lot of yelling and pain and sadness and he just didn’t understand. But now that things had calmed down, Finch felt safer in this area, still not as safe without Reese around.

Harold often wondered if he’d done something wrong, and what that was. He remembered sleeping a lot when the nice man was around, but he couldn’t stay awake, it hurt. His head hurt, eyes hurt, hands hurt-he liked sleeping. It was an escape from everything, the pain, and the odd stares. The people here were kind, gentle but they still gave him a funny look when he’d do something unexpected. Finch didn’t understand, a lot of things were hard to understand, such as colors.

Yawning again, he glanced at the chair, feeling a squeezing in his chest that freaked him out, hand reaching up to smoother the area next to his heart. “Hurts…” He softly mumbled, blue eyes glazed over as he hugged the bear close, frowning into it. “John?” He questioned again, closing his eyes tightly and squeezing the teddy tight.

He didn’t understand.

-:-

Lowering the gun and checking the two downed men, John carried about his duties. After all, he was the contingency. Mrs. Wood stood in the corner, looking terrified and stuttering. “Well, that shows how much your husband loves you.” Reese growled, zip tying the men and kicking their guns away.

“W-What?” The elderly woman whispered, looking on the verge of a heart attack. Reese approached closer, giving her a sincere smile.

“Just relax; the police are on their way.” And with that, he slipped out the back door, tapping his ear piece and contacting Shaw. “Alright, Mrs. Wood’s is safe, law enforcement on the way.”

There was a hanging pause before she responded, “Sounds good, I’ll see you back at our bat cave.” There was a slight snicker; she was trying to make their job… fun. Since Reese had departed from Harold, he’d been slowly drowning himself in alcohol. Not enough to show up a stumbling mess, but just enough to smell the whisky over the black coffee, no doubt strong.

The ex-op showed no emotion as he strolled down the street, watching several cruisers glide by, screaming sirens.

Things were boring without Harold.

Things _hurt_ without Harold.

-:-

Fusco set down his third cup of coffee, groaning as he ran a hand down his face. “Alright, what do you got for me this morning Carter?” His gruff voice asked, tilting the chair around so he could stare at the other detective who was packing up some files.

“Nothing, Lionel.” Was her response, reaching over and locking her computer, putting the folders in her desk, the crisp yellow paper in her grip crinkled a bit. “I’m going on a visit…” Her look told the true tale of who she’d be seeing, a sad and detached air. Biting his lip, the curly haired man nodded, turning back to the stack of missing person’s reports he’d be scanning through, identifying a body.

“Have fun.” Fusco mumbled, watching as she disappeared, feeling awkward about the whole situation. What the hell where you supposed to say when someone was visiting a damaged man-it’d be easier to greet a grave stone in a sense. But he immediately felt bad about even considering Finch’s death.

-:-

Carter walked in, keeping the papers tucked under her arm as she signed in at the main office. “Uhm, Hi. I’m detective Joss Carter, my fiend Harold Fi-Crow,” She quickly corrected, eyes darting down as the woman behind the desk nodded and signed a pass.

“Well, Mrs. Carter, his room is at 25C, please keep all noise to minimum, other patients may be napping at this time of day.” The secretary mumbled handing her the guest card to enter the room, already seeing Joss here once or twice before.

The officer took the card and thanked the secretary once more again, before turning toward the bank of elevators on the left hand side.

-:-

_“I trusted you!” A woman screamed, turning around and pointing something at him, the thing shining dully in the large room. Steeping back, Finch turned and watched as John stepped in, holding the same shiny object._

_“Are you alright-Finch?”_

Finch?

That didn’t sound right-but it sounded familiar. All the doctors had called him Harold Crow, not Finch. The name made a distant pain ach in his head, making him wake up more as the machines were beeping again. Lower lip trembling, he brought a hand to his head and gently touched the back of it, frowning at the cool metal and the throbbing pain it caused.

“John?” He again asked looking up from his bedding with a watery eyes-he didn’t like things like that. Memories in his sleep, _what were they called again? …Dreams, yes, that’s it_. Thinking of the past made his head hurt, so he pushed those thoughts aside and focused more so on the fact that he was hungry.

 _Maybe the nice man could-oh… that’s right, he’s not here anymore_.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he stared at the door, expectantly. People usually came when he did that. After several moments, he heard the door click and unlock, the handle bouncing. Harold was glad to see a different face, and clothing. All the dull colors of white and pink, or blue were boring now.

But it still wasn’t John.

Instead, a different woman appeared, holding a nice yellow package under her arm. She looked somewhat recognizable, but again, those thoughts made his head hurt. “Hi.” He greeted, learning that from the doctors, Emily said it was nice to greet people. This lady looked kinda familiar actually, the teddy bear, yes she’d given him the teddy bear.

“Hello, Harold. I’m detective Joss Carter.” The darker woman informed, and her grand opening only resulted in a very confused stare. Suddenly, she remembered that Finch was broken; most of the things she’d said meant nothing to him. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just…” Shaking her head, Carter flopped down on the seat- _that’s were John sits_ \- Finch thought with a slight frown. “How are you today, Harold?” Joss asked, starting the complex conversation over.

“Hungry.” Was all he really said, looking out the window for a moment before a thought hit him- _maybe she knows John_! “Car…” There was a silence, Finch momentarily closing his eyes and cycling through the words, “Carter?” He asked, looking toward her with a somewhat excited expression.

She was just going to get up and ask a nurse for some food when her name rang out in the silence, Harold’s voice sounded slightly off key from his normal dry tone, but since he’d been shot in the head… “Yes, Harold?” she asked, sitting back down from her slightly raised position and patting the other man’s hand encouragingly.

“John?” He simply said, tilting his head with a tiny smile, the corners of his mouth lifting up. The detective just stared at him, brown eyes somewhat wide and mouth ajar.

“What?” She breathed, leaning closer to search Harold’s eyes for something of use. All she got was a blank stare, his smiling fading. “John, do you remember him, Harold?”

Of course he did, the tall man had visited only several hundred times since the accident. Harold nodded, seeming proud of himself, he remembered John-he was nice. “Yes,” He stated, nodding again rapidly, making his neck hurt. Carter bit her lip in anticipation, if Finch actually remembered the times of desperate need, when they had helped so many, saved so much. It could change everything. The answer she got was something she’d never seen coming. “Kiss,” Finch stuttered out, reaching up to his forehead-another dull memory was muddled, but he remembered soft words spoken against his temple. It made him smile, heart aching again and he was quick to fist the grey material over his chest with a sudden pout.

“Kiss?” Joss asked, eyebrows knitting together in frustrated confusion, but a small piece of her mind whispered _‘I fucking called it_.’

-:-

_“God, John…” Harold panted; whole body sagging down into the mattress, chest heaving to gain back lost air. The ex-op chuckled, body covered in a very thin sheen of sweat, much like the smaller mans. Beads of pearly cum splattered their conjoined stomachs, blue eyes focusing in on the steel ones hovering atop him, a small smile playing on his lips as he caught his breath. John happily inclined his head, capturing those reddened lips once more, mirroring the smile._

_Rolling his hips once more, drawing a soft gasp from his partner, John receded from the tight warmth, reaching down to roll of the condom and tie it tightly, not wanting to make a mess. Finch had groaned at the loss, letting his arms slip from broad shoulders weakly, feeling exhausted. “Tired?” Reese gently teased, reaching over to grab the discarded towel from Finch’s shower earlier, using it to clean them both up. Once the deed was done, he tossed the now dirtied towel off the bed, making Finch frown as the safe room’s cleanliness was, again, diminished. John smiled at the typical OCD attack Finch nearly had, coaxing the man onto his side as he curled up behind him, assuming the ‘big spoon.’ The older man settled onto the bed, sinking in at an angle so the pressure wouldn’t hurt his hip, tilting the pillow for his neck._

_Once they were hunkered down for the evening, John pressed tender kisses to the thin white scar, making Finch squirm a bit. “I love you, Harold.” He said again, never growing tired of the words, wanting to repeat them forever, as long as Finch existed and then some. Reese truly loved Harold, he made everything whole again, and the hole of losing Jessica was swallowed up in the reclusive man’s very presence._

_Reaching up a bit, Finch intertwined their fingers, smiling as he did so, squeezing the digits. “I love you too, John.” Reese smiled against the scar, a warm and ‘fuzzy’ feeling echoing into his very being, wrapping Finch gently in a tighter hug; Reese pressed more kisses down the curve of the older man’s shoulder. Resulting in a happy giggle from the older man, shifting around to face the ex-op with a warm smile, blue eyes vibrant and light._

_God, he was so lucky-_

Torn from his dream by the loud chiming of a car alarm outside his apartment flat and shooting up quickly, wielding the nearly empty whisky bottle as a weapon, Reese took a minute or so to get to his bearings. And once he did, pain showed in his glassy eyes when he sagged back down on the empty bed, staring as the ceiling.

Another god damn memory had wormed its way into his fitful moments of sleep.

The bottle rolled from his grip and onto the floor, staining the carpet with some of its slow killing fluid, an empty cling to the floor. Reese knew that leaving Finch alone, in that hospital, was going to be tough. Moving on would be harder. But forgetting what they had… that’d be _impossible_.

He’d never felt so complete in his life, never. What he and Harold had was indescribable, such filling and desire wouldn’t be matched, and such adoration and bonding couldn’t be countered.

Looking around the now messy room, he thought of a time when he’d wake up in the mornings with the older man molded against his side, when the whole flat was clean and precise, when the smell of a gentle tea wafted through the air. Now it was a mess, beer bottles and old Chinese take-out scattered throughout the entire building, suits tossed on the ground carelessly, towels hanging on the furniture.

The closet was still mainly in order, some of Harold’s suits hanging there, untouched. The bed shirt that was originally Reese’s, but Finch had lain claimed to, still was folded up on the bedside drawer. Reaching out, he caught the sleeve with his pinky finger and pulled the stained grey tee over, bringing it closer for a whiff.

It still smelled like Harold.

Steel eyes closing, he breathed in the scent again and again, trying to imagine the older man sleeping right there again, but the memory wouldn’t fully come back. “God damn it…” The ex-op growled, a sob threatening to bubble up, tears piercing through his veil of abstinence. He couldn’t pretend that he was fine, couldn’t shrug Shaw’s worried croons anymore or Carters daring stares. He was going to fall apart without Finch; he’d end up somewhere worse than on the streets.

Curling up around the shirt, he sucked in a deep breath, and finally let it all come out. Crying and shaking, a break down was good every once and a while, it’d keep him from hanging himself.

“ _Harold_ …”

-:-

The woman and Harold had talked for a long time, well, Finch tried. Sometimes she used big words that he didn’t quite understand yet, but he was learning. From what he was able to gather, Carter knew John, but didn’t recall anything about a number or contact. That was saddening, he missed John.

Finch jerked his attention to the door once more, watching as Emily entered the room, holding a tray of food for his dinner, time slipped by, he didn’t realize he’d slept through lunch. The doctor politely excused Carter from the room, but the detective had waved and promised to visit again.

“Bye-Bye,” He repeated, watching as the door closed, his hand falling to his side gently. Then, turning complete attention to the meal offered, he went through the list of thing’s he’d eat. Pudding, fruit, veggies and the soft potatoes in the center.

Reaching up to scratch his head, Harold wondered how he could remember all these foods, but not people. All the faces and feelings where hard to understand, and he didn’t like things that hurt to learn. “Did you have a nice chat with Joss?” The doctor had asked, watching as Finch’s hand trembled, holding the spoon weighted down with potatoes. Finch looked up at her, and then nodded.

“Nice chat.” Was all he said, then, as if it was important, he added, “She knew John, miss him.” Grammar was still horribly chopped up, but at least Finch was using more complex words to for a simple sentence.

“Oh? Did she? Well, I’ll have to see if we could get in touch with John then,” Her words filled Finch with hope, and the doctor’s heart panged when he gave his best lopsided smile.

“Hope so.” Finch uttered, and then turned back to the meal, slowly chewing and rolling around some of the cut mango on the orange tray. Leaving him to eat in peace, Emily tracked down Carter. As soon as she was gone, Finch guiltily ate some of the pudding first, mixing a bite with the potatoes. When about half of the little container was empty, he lifted the cup and set it on the chair, watching it expectantly like John was supposed to poof right there and polish it off.

Off course, that didn’t happen, but gravity showed up, the slight tilt on the armrest caused the cup to fall to the floor, resulting in a loud sound that made Finch scared. He hated loud noises; they reminded him of pain and shining objects and sadness-lots of sadness. In his slight panic, he pushed the rest of the tray off, wanting to curl up with the teddy and hide. Naturally, the orange platter clattered to the ground, the plastic dumping a fulfilling mess everywhere and staining the bedding different colors.

Covering his ears and laying on his side, Finch closed his eyes and rocked slightly. The echoing of his food tray slowly died down, but the panic did not, instead it seemed to rise. Memories contributing to the flame as his mind cycled through moments of loud noises-bombs, screaming, gunshots-all breathed a sign of who he was into the terrified man.

“John-John,” He called, loud and worriedly, tears showing in his eyes again as he did so, “ _John_ -”

-:-

Once the small man was curled up, fast asleep, Emily helped one of the nurses clean up the mess. Finch had gone into some sort of memory induced shock, one so bad that it required sedatives to even remotely calm him down. Throughout the whole ordeal, Harold had screamed and repeated ‘ _John_ ’ over and over again, like a mantra of need.

The doctor needed to find out where Mr. Reese had disappeared to, follow any lead, because Finch _needed_ him.

For now, the man could sleep. Wrapped around the teddy bear, lost to his dreams and Emily hoped his rest proved more comforting than the lonesome room.

One could hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Least favorite chapter, in my view.


	4. Healing (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a short account of sexual assault, within the voice of a dream. It is very short and unsettling, warning you before hand.  
> *Also, the attackers are completely fictional!

“I talked to Harold today,” The detective spoke softly, looking around the little coffee shop while Shaw idly sucked down her espresso. Both women had agreed to meet up regularly, behind John’s back; he’d get nervous if he ever found out.

“And how was he?” Shaw continued the conversation, somewhat unaware that Finch still lay broken in the hospital. After a moment, she sighed and set down the creamy cup, running a hand through her fading brown hair, still messy but perfect. “I mean-”

“He’s… better. Still not _Finch_ , but not… gone.” Carter breathed, looking down again at the stained glass table, shifting once more. “Shaw, I know that where not exactly… friends, but I have information on those records you guys sent over.” There was a hanging moment of silence, both remembering the data Reese was able to dig up about the men who harmed Harold. “Here,” Handing the yellow folder off under the table, Shaw expertly tucking it away in her coat, looking at ease.

“Thanks…” Trailing off, she swished some the fluid in her mouth from her last drink, looking hard at Carter, still reflecting if she could really trust the darker woman. Reese and Harold had seemed to trust her, and the taller still did. “I’m sorry about John.”

It felt odd apologizing for something she had no control over, but Reese was her partner, they suffered in silence together.

The detective smiled sadly again, “Well, if you could ever convince him to visit Harold again, I’m sure he’d like that. In fact, Dr. November informed me that he always asks for Reese, every day, every hour. It’s just not…” Brown eyes bore a hole into the table, feeling suddenly angry at the distance Reese had set between the shorter man, that wasn’t fair to Harold. The memory of how excited Harold got at the mention of John, the confused look of sadness when he realized that Carter couldn’t tell him any contact information, then the tiny tremor in his voice as he waved goodbye to her-it made her angry and sad all at the same time. “It’s not fair for Harold.”

Shaw nodded, but said no more.

-:-

Physical therapy had to be put on hold, the upset Harold had last night made things difficult to move on, the sedative still making his movements jerky and lagging. Plus he had a small fever, which had to be watched closely-a fever may not sound like much, but to a man who’d been shot in the head, the slight temperature change could end everything.

“Give him a tablet of children’s Aspirin,” Emily had directed to one of the nurses, watching as she nodded and skirted off to get the medicine, leaving them alone once more. Finch was still sleeping, having settled right back in after the small breakfast, Dr. November hadn’t been able to keep him awake long enough to finish the meal. She didn’t realize the amount of sedative administered at the time, but things were a mess last night, Harold’s fit had caused other patients down the hall to freak out, so the night consisted of running around and calming down everyone affected.

The children’s Aspirin had enough kick to lower a fever, without throwing off the carefully set blood thickness-which for now was a little on the thinner side. The healing blood vessels the supplied the brain with oxygenated blood couldn’t handle the regular blood levels; the thin walls had a chance of rupture and possible causing a stroke or aneurism.

A couple minutes later, the nurse arrived with the tablet, helping rouse Harold from his slumber again so he could chew the slow acting medicine; the fever wasn’t too serious for a quicker dose. The man wasn’t happy, sluggishly mumbling fragmented words of complaints, eyes still closed when Emily gave him the directions ‘Chew and swallow.’ Finch didn’t like the taste of the grape tablet, sleepily complaining but once the Aspirin had disappeared they had coaxed him back to rest, receiving no further protest.

The nurse soon returned to her duties with other patients, while Emily rechecked all the monitors and bodily conditions, before gazing closer at the resting man. Finch’s hair was fully growing out; the only places not replaced with brown tufts would be the exit wound and naturally the entrance wound-which was still currently covered with the metal plating. She’d already looked into having it removed at some point, but that may cause a grievance with other doctors or put Harold’s life into danger once more. So for now, it’d stay on-the plating didn’t seem to bother him all that much.

-:-

Reese didn’t drag himself out of bed until noon, stumbling to the shower and then leaning against the wall half undressed while the water pounded down on him. The effects of the heavy whiskey were kicking in, making his mind fuzzy with different memories. Running a hand down his face, whisked with a slight scruff, Reese had no duty to shave anymore, too lazy to. Steel eyes glared at the shadowy tile of the expansive bathroom, his pathetic looking reflection laughing back at him, showing the true horror of what hell he was putting this body through.

Getting drunk every night, living of old pizza, pushing himself more every passing day as the numbers steadily flowed in.

He couldn’t go on like this.

Dark circles scared under his eyes, baggy and unhealthy looking. His skin losing that natural, happy glow to it. Eyes haven lost the mischievous spark. His breath smelled of rotting food and alcohol.

Two weeks and he’d be looking like the old hobo on the trains.

-:-

The library was empty, all but Bear, who moped his way over to her. His playful gait had been slowed to a sad sight, limbs dragging and head slung down-Bear sensed the sadness that plagued them all. Reaching down to give him a light scratch, Shaw sat down at Harold’s desk, glancing around before opening the yellow folder and dumping the thick contents out.

Three familiar faces stared back at her. The men who tortured Finch into begging, broken him both mentally and physically, then left him for dead in an empty warehouse. The men that they strived for, she wanted to lock them away-but not without giving them a taste of their own medicine.

They were all false names, true identities concealed by big government, high paying organizations. But that was good; their fake names may be known on the streets, maybe even part of a gang.

 _Mark Alburg, Chase Vulter_ and _Roy Troder_.

They all looked American, Mark had dark hair and brown eyes, tanned and fit. Chase looked thinner, pale and shaky, blond and green eyed. Roy was the heaviest, according to the photos, burly and macho, a fake act, brown hair and blue eyes.

She regarded each photo first, filing them to memory with a deadly glare. Then went through the files, looking at the charges under their names. Many of them were noise complaints, over assertion; armed robbery-it was a surprise they weren’t in prison. But Shaw had a feeling that they had higher up’s looking out for them. Glancing at the last page, there was a filled out form regarding a rape charge, the case had lost, and the defendant had gone missing.

Shaw felt her stomach sink, but her anger fueled.

-:-

_“Heheh, bet you like that-huh?!”_

_Pain, agony, converged on his fragile body, breaking him. They were breaking him._

_“N-No …Stop, please…”_

_Pleads ignored, laughter amongst the group shared. More pain, more taunts, teases._

_“So weak, but you feel so damn good,” Grinning, a camera mocking him._

_“Help-… Please. Stop!” Red with pain and embarrassment, shame, the recording device captured his downfall. Sobbing, shuddering, and begging. “Please, please… stop it-it hurts…” Screaming, more pain, his neck and hip tensing up, shame blubbered out with sobs. “Stop… please…”_

Finch awoke near the point of tears, jerking up with fury and fear, Emily grabbing him before he could harm himself further. The grip made his stomach do flips, feeling’s around his legs, phantom things holding him open- “ _Help_ ,” Shaking with dread as nausea settled in, but the sincere green gaze calmed him some, this was Emily-not blood thirsty men.

“Sh, Harold, it’s just me, Emily. It’s okay.” A peaceful whisper quieted down the anxious dreamer, a small smile given as comfort when he gasped in lungsful and looked around franticly.

Some patients exhibited them under extreme trauma, stress, bad reaction to pills.

Emily was going to lay her bets on trauma, not only being shot in the head, but maybe something more…

Harold pulled himself closer, wanting to hide, memories chasing him again, and Emily was a nice lady. She let him curl up, petting his hair and whispering kind words across his temple, waiting until his trembles died down and he was staring off into space with one of his ‘thinking looks.’ Sighing, she stood up again, watching Harold closely and taking a seat, green eyes narrowing.

-:-

_“Harold, I’m sorry.” Reese said, looking down shamefully. He’d failed their latest number; the taxi got there faster than he could. Finch was facing the other way, tossing the old pictures in the trash without a second glance._

_“It’s alright, Mr. Reese.” Mr. Reese, it was cruel to call him that, but Finch feared that if he tried to voice out the man’s first name, he may break down. It was hard enough to understand the Machine hadn’t had eyes on her, but hearing Reese’s anger break over the mic when he found the woman dead in her apartment… that was almost too much._

_His creation had failed the woman; John had tried his hardest, but…_

_“Harold,” A touch on the shoulder, blue eyes watering. “Please-”_

_“I’m fine, John!” The border line between fear and action split for a moment, a hand swiping the ex-op’s hold off the fine tailoring. “I’m fine, we can do this, it was just one number.” Reese didn’t say anything for the longest time; neither could see any emotion on the faces. “We can do this.”_

_‘I can’t do this…’_

_That night Harold broke down, pulling close to Reese and sobbing, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand by and watch number after number lost the consumption of their errors; it was breaking them both-killing them essentially. The taller man had only held him close, to worried about his mask breaking to actually say anything._

_“I can’t, John, I can’t,” Was all Finch had been able to say for the longest time, “I can’t do this anymore,” Another sob, more comforting whispers._

_And soon doubt turned into determination._

-:-

“It was odd,” The younger began, staring at Dave from across the table, fork filled up with peas as they shared a fancy dinner for once. The man looked up from his frequent cutting and set aside the knife, giving Emily his full attention.

“What was?”

“It-well,” Bringing up patients at the dinner table was frowned upon, you’re supposed to just leave it all back in the hospital. “What happened with Harold today.”

“Oh,” Was all his reply, voice tense as he looked back at the plate. “Emily, you know-”

“Yes, I know, I know, it’s just that… something else happened to the man. The police blocked out some information before he came in and I’m afraid that if we don’t fully understand it, it could harm the man more than needed.” Silence followed her rushed statement, Dave leaned forward again.

“Blocked out?” They shared a silent conversation for a moment or two, and then went onto eating.

Emily knew he’d understand, his patient last year died from self-harm when she was able to walk around. She was screaming and complaining about something, but they could never understand.

Most of her papers had been blocked out.


	5. Healing (5)

Harold had the best handwriting, Dave thought, for a man who’d been shot in the head-his handwriting was one to make a professor jealous. Slightly cursive, elegant and neat, a style that clearly was by itself, and probably always would be.

“Is that… good?” Finch mumbled, setting down the marker and staring at the other man dully, the words ‘ _The cat jumped over the hat’_ written precisely on the whiteboard. The expert gave his shoulder a squeeze and picked up the small board, staring at the words with wonder.

“It’s excellent.” He assured, nodding to the board again, it was still mind blowing. Any patient of his struggled with writing an _‘I’_ that was recognizable, but Harold… there might be hope for the man yet. A shuffling noise can be heard, and turning his head, Dave caught the damaged man pulling the teddy bear closer to him once more. The purple thing needed washing again, but Harold seemed to love it, an absolute mystery.

-:-

“Look at this,” Dave encouraged, holding the board out to his sister with a grin. “We haven’t seen such a fast paced recovery in years, Emily.” He pressed his fingers under the words with another chuckle, “It’s remarkable!”

Emily nodded, steeping closer and examining the words closely, “Very distinctive…” Was all her musing’s, Dave instantly deflated like a popped balloon. “We need to buy him a journal, it’s about time he starts writing now. Maybe it’ll help him.” Emily had changed; the last visit to the higher-up doctors had destroyed her. They had called her workings with Harold irrational, claiming that he needs to be sent to a _psyche ward_ , not wasting the money of the hospital. Since then, Dave feared she believed them.

Harold simply stared off into the windows, lost in the city while the sibling’s conversed in hushed whispers on the other side of the room.

He really didn’t care anymore.

-:-

Physical therapy wasn’t too bad, Dave didn’t push him like Emily did, and the only downfall was the dull and repeated routine. They hardly ever changed it. Dave claimed it was to help keep a stable point in Harold’s life, showing him that if they take things slow-he’ll get better. It didn’t make sense though, but now that Finch thought about it, he was getting better.

Still no John, though, the doctors had long given up bargaining for his corporation with John as a treat. Finch wondered if the taller man even remembered him at this point, his smile was fading.

-:-

Visitors were becoming scarce these days; it was depressing, but gave Finch decent time to think about some things. He thought a lot about the people who were out there, living and walking around, not caged in the dull hold of this hospital. Dreams of escaping and blending into the crowd were not uncommon. He could barely remember it, but he knew-memorized the steps to a certain park, across from a bridge, he could almost feel the heat of another body right there, beside him in the bed.

The nurse disturbed his little day dream, she was just delivering the meal for tonight. Macaroni and cheese, with corn and apple sauce on the side. No pudding today, Harold had realized quickly that this pudding privilege of his had been revoked since that night. Instead he got apple sauce, sometimes Emily would splash a little sugar on it, but… that didn’t happen much anymore.

Emily had changed, it was subtle, yet very saddening, and Harold wondered if it was his fault. If only he’d tried harder with colors….

-:-

The journal Dave had fetched for him was pleasantly small, tapered at the ends and held a graceful brown color, but gold tinted the pages. Harold liked it nearly as much as his bear; it was a nice break - writing.

He could write all day, expressing himself in ways Finch hadn’t realized he was capable of.

There were words that he just _knew_ , they bubbled out of the darkest depths and sat like dead fish in a bloody pond, just waiting for the right net. But there were other things Finch didn’t understand, he had so many memories, different names-it was confusing…

Quail, Crow, Wren, Finch… _who was he_?

He expressed every detail of his distress in the compressed pages.

_‘6/13/13, I had a dream about people, numbers… none of it made any sense, but John was there. He’s always there. People called me Quail, I was in a large building, and it was dark and then…I think I woke up.’_

_‘6/14/13, Today, I was by a dock. There was a blond man, Nate? Nathan? I didn’t quite hear it, people were screaming, I don’t know why. A lady called me Mr. Wren-I don’t understand. Then I woke up.’_

_‘6/15/13, There was a dog, very nice, but it didn’t understand English. I tried to follow it down a highway, we were all alone. The dog got hit by a car, I woke up.’_

_‘6/16/13, We were stuck in the car, I had a laptop and he had guns, he told me to get out. I watched him drive away, some weird people grabbed me, and I woke up.’_

_‘6/17/13, I don’t want to talk about dreams anymore.’_

_‘6/30/13, I don’t understand.’_

_-:-_

It wasn’t long until one of the nurses consulted the siblings about Harold’s mental health, he had read the journal out loud one day to her, she was expecting innocence and bunnies-but she got something darker, a confused man.

Emily snuck in when Finch was napping, flipping through the pages, and finding scribbles over some words and drawings by the ends. Looking over at the sleeping man thoughtfully, she reached over, touching his brown puffy locks and sighing; perhaps the higher ups were right.

-:-

_“Harold…” John whispered, pulling the older man closer and kissing the back of his neck, “We need to get up.” The sun was peaking over the hills, pouring through their curtains and over their lazily stretched bodies. Finch simply whined, fisting a blanket and squeezing his eyes shut once more, not fancying a new day after the night before. He already felt sore and sticky. “Come on,” Reese purrs behind him, sounding fully awake, but his body still needed to adjust, the roughness scrapped up the back of his throat with ever whisper._

_“Alright,” Finch mumbled, rolling over slightly, despite the protest in his lower back, and stared blankly at his lover. It still felt odd, calling Reese a lover, holding him close a night. It felt good. John provided a placed for shelter, a place for undivided attention and lust. Reese’s hands came to circle around his plump waist, pulling Finch flush against him easily, the blankets shifting ever so slightly._

_Neither of them mind, content to lay there all day, lost in one another’s senses._

-:-

Finch awoke that night around ten, and didn’t fall asleep until two, he felt… incomplete.

Little did he know that hallway’s across the city, John sat there, deep in thought.

Staring at his empty bed.

-:-

By the next week, Emily had lined up a respectable physiatrist to help monitor Harold’s behavior, so they wouldn’t further confuse him.

Dave had been the one to escort him to her office, the new shrink had moved downstairs. Harold couldn’t walk yet, but he was getting there, slowly and steadily, like a drum beat, working his way higher and higher. The wheelchair would always be uncomfortable, Finch thought briefly, but for some reason, he knew how to steer himself.

Like he’d been sitting in a wheelchair before, long ago.

As the doctor opened the door to the confined office, Finch tried his best to make a good impression. She looked nice, brown hair tied back into a neat bun, pale skin lite up in the golden glow of a noon sun and her brown eye’s looked _almost_ honest.

She had kneeled down to his eyelevel, her reflection caught between his lenses.

“Hello, Harold. I’m Doctor Samantha Root; it’s nice to finally meet you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Finch sat across from the doctor, watching as Dr. Root lounged on a simple brown leather chair. She sat with her legs slightly crossed, the long skirt resting just below her knees and her heels were a shiny black. The dark green shirt and brown jacket made his inner fashion sense curl up and hiss at her choices.

Root watched Harold with a critical gaze, a frown tugging at her features. Mentally impaired, who would have thought? Fortunately the Machine had asked (more like _ordered_ ) her to make some sort of leeway into his recovery. She was angry, her god in the towers was enraged, and her god intended to make the people who’d harmed her creator pay. Samantha was awaiting for the epic conclusion. She hoped it’d include blood.

“Harold, I’d like to clear some things up beforehand… our meetings are private, and should not be discussed with anyone else. Is that alright?” She reached over towards her desk and plucked a file off of it. The initials **H. F.** were carefully inked into the first page.

“That’s fine,” Finch responded, tilting his head as he watched her quickly write some things down into the paper. She was… interesting. Her very image invoked a very peculiar memory – she was the one who pointed that shiny thing – _a gun_. She pointed a gun at him!

He gripped at the wheelchair and pressed back into the seat, licking his suddenly dry lips and trying to ignore the way his heart started to race.

The memory from his nightmare flooded his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut to fully embrace it. _She kidnapped him – she killed a woman in the passenger seat and she tied him to a seat… she demanded information. She tortured a man. She killed a man… she took him to a train station._

_Then John had jumped in and saved him. He had a gun to…_

His head started pounding, a sharp headache pinching right in the middle of his forehead as he kept thinking, digging.

“Samantha Groves,” Harold whispered in awe, one piece of the puzzle snapping into place. “Miss Groves… _Root_ ,” He took a shuddering breath and shook his head, grasping at another straw.

“Oh, you remember me? I suppose that’s good… not very fun though, I was looking forward to dissecting you, Harold.” Root pouted, but winked at him. She was gambling on the fact that her rather traumatic past with Harold would trigger a response.

That meant that other, harsh connections could be made. Good thing she was never the orthodox type.

Besides, they didn’t have much time.

-:-

Harold met with Dr. Root every day for the past three weeks, and he’d learned more about himself in those twenty-one days then he could have ever learned without her harsh treatment. Most of it involved her laptop, and a lot of coding. Numbers came easy to him, like breathing itself, it was just natural.

Then came the more complicated stuff. Aliases, memories, people – The Machine. John, Miss Shaw, Bear, Carl Elias, Leon Tao, Simmons, Detective Carter, Detective Fusco, Kara Stanton, Mark Snow, John Greer – Decima… the list grew on and on.

But Finch understood, memories flashed before his eyes, information was neatly stacked up in his files, and codes kept it all under control. Root coaxed some private information from him, and sat down with him for hours, helping him understand when he couldn’t get past a certain memory.

One of those memories was Grace Hendricks.

He _loved_ her. He wanted to keep her safe, no matter what it costs. Finch was certain he would be reduced to a murderer to her sake.

Harold loved John now, and those memories came easier. Root said it was because they were more recent, but Finch had his own thoughts on the matter.

“Harold, she wants to talk to you…” Root whispered one day, circling behind him as he sat behind the large oak desk. His fingers twitched on the keys, and he stared at the black screen. “She’s been so worried.”

“I gave The Machine specific instructions-”

“We both know she’d ignore every directive for you, Harry.” She toyed with the new cane Harold had gotten recently. It was sturdy, a nice fine wooden material and a silver handle. Root thought it’d make a good weapon, especially for bludgeoning somebody to death. Suddenly, Root sighed and tapped her ear. “Oh dear… it appears Decima is making its move sooner than I thought… we need to go.”

“What?” Harold asked, not understanding her for a moment before a memory of John Greer slithered out of the darkness, and with it, came the horror of _Samaritan_. “ _Oh_ …”

She grabbed him harshly by the upper arm and hauled him to his feet, typing in a kill code for the laptop, which rendered it useless, and flung open a drawer, pulling out a gun. Finch took a sharp breath and stepped away, blue eyes wide behind his frames.

“Don’t be so coy, Harold. We’ve done this before. Now, grab your jacket. Theres a reason I made them dress you up for tonight.” Root carefully placed the cane into his shaking hands, and pulled him towards the door. “They’ll kill us both if we mess around, now come on. Don’t freak out. We’ll take the stairs down to the parking garage.”

He was shoved out into the hallway, and limped quickly besides the woman to keep up, his body protesting. Finch had only been standing up for a few days now, and not for very long.

The man should’ve been terrified, but a part of his lesser, scared mind simply hunkered down behind the facts and understood that Reese would save him. He always saves him.

… Harold hoped he would show up though…

-:-

_DANGER – DANGER. ADMIN IN THREAT. VIOLINCE DETECTED. DANGER._

_CALLING ASSET: JOHN REESE._

Reese shoved his way through the crowded street, not grumbling apologies as he pushed past the people. Shaw wove her way seamlessly behind him, hands shoved into her pockets. “I’m hungry. Hey – are you even listening to me? John?”

The phone rang across from the street and both agents attention was drawn onto it. “Not now.” Shaw sighed, stalking across the street with John. “Not another number, I was so looking forward to lunch.”

John grunted and carefully picked up the phone, holding it to his ear.

_DANGER. MeRcy HospiTAL – ADMIN DANGER – DecIMA – ImmEDIate aCTIon necESsary._

The man felt his blood chill, but his anger boiled over at the very thought of Decima. He was so not in the mood to deal with them this time. “Shaw, looks like lunch will have to be postponed. It appears The Machine as given us a new number…”

“Are you kidding me? I’m starving…” The woman stubbornly blew a piece of hair from her face and pouted until she saw Reese’s hardened look. “Who is it?”

John’s hands tightened into fists and he took one deep breath before answering. “ _Harold._ ”

-:-

“I don’t think this is a very good idea… Miss Groves – I’m still… learning. I mean – this is happening to soon… I’m still confused.” Harold panted, slowing his gait once they got to the garage. “My doctors, they’ll be worried.”

“I know, Harold. But Decima isn’t giving me another choice, besides; she says it’s time for you to be back home. Your dogs are really missing you Harry, and I’m afraid they’ll bite me next time we see each other if I don’t get you back safely in one piece-”

Finch flinched as a gunshot rang throughout the garage and echoed, and took a step back when Root screeched and clutched at her now bleeding shoulder.

“Damn it!” She shouted angrily, lifting her hand and suddenly firing her own weapon, which set off a car alarm. Finch covered his ears and dropped his cane, terrified of what was about to happen.

More shots echoed – but they were simply phantom memories – bombs shook the ground below his feet, rough hands grabbed at him, cruel words echoed once more in his mind before suddenly the dam cracked, the small trickle of information he was able to receive morphed into a full on ocean as that dam shattered.

_Harold Crow was left behind._

His eyes opened, and he snatched Roots arm, pulling her back into an off ramp before the attacker could reload. “Miss Groves, please keep your voice down.” He said coolly, starling the woman as she turned to face the older man.

“Harold… are you-”

“Am I back? Metaphorically speaking, yes. Though once this all blows over, I’ll need some more time.” Harold narrowed his eyes as he hid behind a column, watching some blood trickle between Roots pale fingers.

“I assume Mister Reese is already on his way. Please give me the phone Miss Groves, I need to make a call.”

Once he held the phone, Finch watched with a laid back demeanor as Root shot several times at a man dressed in black across from them, about six cars away. He dialed a quick, memorized number that had always lingered in his mind.

_“WELCOME BacK ADMIN HAROLD – please WAIT assiTANCE IS On thE WAY.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEAL WITH THE SHITTYNESS.  
> Oh well, I hope you like it. Chapter seven will be better, I hope...


	7. Chapter 7

Emily and Dave sat together in Dr. Root’s office, murmuring in hushed tones while the nurses scrambled around, searching for any signs of Harold. The cops were questioning people, but nobody seemed to know where her brain damaged patient had vanished to. “She kidnapped him,” Emily whispered, head held in her hands as she did so.

“I think that’s to rash of a possibility… She was _helping_ him, Emily.” Dave tried to comfort, but he felt the same way. The doctor wasn’t like the others, she was odd, secretive. He should have known sooner.

-:-

Harold only remembers bits and pieces from the attempted kidnapping. He remembers Root being shot in the shoulder. He remembers hiding near a bank of elevators. He remembers John and Shaw descending down like ravage animals.

He does not remember Reese putting him in a car, and then taking them to a safe house. He does not remember Shaw working on Root’s wound. Or Bear trying to tackle him and his frantic barking. Finch does not remember Reese sitting across the table from him and _just staring._ Nor Root feeding him a bowl of soup, offering kind, worrisome smiles. Reese had taken him to the bedroom, and carefully made sure he would be all settled in for the evening.

By the time Harold was safe and sound, fast asleep in the dark brown covers and the unknown safe house, it was nearing one in the morning. Root watched as John sat down near the end of the table, staring hard at the cherry wood. Shaw clenched and unclenched her fists nervously near the door to Harold’s room; her eyes darted about, and then settled on the dog curled up against Harold’s bed.

For a while, nobody moved. Nobody talked. They simply breathed, deep in thought and shared the same space. Finally Reese moved to stand, his chest puffing out as he took one, deep and brooding breath.

“Why?” He asked, the icy stare focused on Root and his hands fisting so hard his knuckles turned a sheer, bone white. “Why, Root?” Reese took a demanding step toward her, but the woman held her ground and regarded him with a nervous air.

“She told me to. The Machine. She said it was time-” Her voice was cut off with a little, surprised gasp as Reese slammed her to the wall. The gunshot wound throbbed, and Root clenched her jaw, trying to remain calm and collected even as Reese pulled a gun on her and pressed his other hand against her throat.

“You’re lying! Damn it, he was _shot_ in the head!” Reese’s eyes looked lost, confused, but his rage was untangling and thrashing through his veins. “He shouldn’t be here. Harold should be back at Mercy right now, safe and sound. Decima or not, you had no right to take him from the one place that could help him. He’s still on medication!”

“I got his medication, silly.” Root tried to laugh, but Reese threateningly pressed his forearm into her neck, chocking off the sound. “Alright – alright!” She gasped, desperate to make Reese release his hold. “I panicked when The Machine told me Decima was arriving – I know it was a risky move – but Harold’s ready now. We just have to introduce him to the population slowly – and he needs to get his grip back on the world. H-Harold can already code like he did last time – he understands. He knows about us and The Machine-”

“You think that’s what I care about? The numbers?!” Reese shouted, angrily waving the gun with one hand in a half attempt to show his rage. Shaw quickly grabbed onto his shoulder, hissing in a low and dangerous voice.

“Reese, I don’t like this anymore than you. But Harold’s here, right now, _sleeping_. Alright?” The operative pulled him back a step, and his hands sank to his sides, but he still kept Root pinned to the wall with his piercing gaze.

“I care about Harold’s health. You think he can just waltz back into this life, Root? It’s so complicated that sometimes I don’t even understand it!” John’s voice rose again, but with another squeeze on his shoulder, it lowered back down to a rough whisper. “We’re going too fast with this. We can’t just push him until it all snaps back into place – that’ll hurt him.”

Root narrowed her eyes and growled, “You think I don’t know that, John? But this is bigger than us. The world needs Harold right now, and he needs us now. I don’t want to see him suffer either.”

“Then take him back-”

“I can’t, John! It’s too late for that now, he’s already here, and he’s back in the game. I’m not putting him back on the bench. You have no right to treat him like a child, John, he’s smart! Do you even know what happened after _you_ abandoned him?” She pointed an accusing finger at John, taking a bold step forward. “He _begged_ for you. Harold missed you. He may not have understood what he was feeling – but he _loves you_ John.”

Reese took a step toward her again, but the fire in his eyes was simmered down, and he slowly gave her back the space she deserved. “You’re right. _I’m a coward_.” With that, John placed his gun on the table, and slowly stalked his way back into Harold’s room.

Shaw tracked him with her eyes, and then returned her gaze to Root. Who looked pitiful and ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry, but it’s what best. John just has to see that. It’ll all work out.” Root whispered, slowly walking over to the table and collapsing into the seat. “I could use a drink…”

-:-

John sat next to the bed, watching Harold sleep with a deep pain in his chest. It was heavy, and suffocating him slowly. He never wanted to leave Harold’s side, but he also thought that the quiet and kind man deserved a more peaceful life after his accident than being tossed back into the wind so carelessly.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes, wondering if he should pray for forgiveness or thank the lord for bringing Harold back to him. Reese felt selfish. He wanted to keep Harold for himself, he wanted to spoil the man and keep him safe.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and Reese didn’t bother rubbing them away, so he simply pressed his face into the edge of the bed and slumped there for the evening. It’d hurt like hell in the morning, but it was all Reese could do for tonight.

He was at war with himself, so deep in thought that he never noticed that Harold had been awake the entire time, watching him cry into the covers silently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da, ANOTHER chapter already.   
> I thought this little interaction was important.


End file.
